


a hole in my being

by anotherbuskitten



Category: Les Misérables (2012), Les Misérables - All Media Types
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Alternate Universe - Siblings, Child Neglect, Gen, I think that's right, M/M, Slow Build
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2014-10-03
Updated: 2014-12-18
Packaged: 2018-02-19 16:40:18
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 5,579
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2395421
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/anotherbuskitten/pseuds/anotherbuskitten
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Grantaire is Courfeyrac's brother from an earlier relationship of their father. They meet and bring unwanted drama and unexpected closeness into each other's lives.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**[I]**

One day, on a shining summer’s afternoon Grantaire sees his father walk down the street.

Keep in mind that this is a man Grantaire had previously only seen in pictures, on the rare occasions that his mother forgot how he had wronged her by being born. As a child he had believed that the man must have died soon after he left them or that he was being forced to stay away, so the shock of seeing him whistling on the road with a boy a few years Grantaire’s junior clutching his arm is one he was never going to be prepared for.

Even as an adult the revival of the memory brings him to shaking and cold sweat, and relieving it on another day, this one cold and windy with drizzle hanging in the trees, was a bigger threat to his sanity than the drink had ever been.

This time he does what his child self could not and chases after the man, who did not appear to have aged a single day since he last saw him. The chase is short lived as Grantaire; who is in good shape from his boxing, fencing and regular brawls with Bahoral, catches him by the arm before the other has a chance to react to the pounding of feet behind him.

Grantaire looms over the other man and is about to push him down, though whether to fight or shout he has not yet decided, when he sees that the man’s face is barely out of childhood itself and stops.

Unless his father is immortal or has a portrait such as Dorian Grey’s then this is not the right man. Grantaire loses his grip on the other’s shirt and steps back.

“I apologise. I thought you were someone I knew.”

“Not a friend, I hope?” The boy’s shocked expression belies his casual tone.

“More of a….missed connection I would say. I am truly sorry.”

“No matter.” He waves it off as though he is frequently accosted by brutes in the street. “If you feel so bad you could buy me a coffee, I suppose.”

So they end up in a small, dingy coffee shop where Grantaire mourns an empty flask and burns his tongue on a drink he has not had for years. Courfeyrac – for that is the other’s name – drinks more than half his drink before asking Grantaire who he had thought he was chasing.

Grantaire does not really wish to talk on the subject but he feels he owes Courfeyrac more than a cup of bad coffee.

“My father.” He wishes he could stop there but he has not spoken about it to anyone in the past and before he can stop himself it is all spilling forth.

“I know it’s common, men have affairs all the time, and really it is nothing personal to have him leave when he discovers she is pregnant; after all that decision has nothing to do with the baby inside her and far more to do with commitment towards a madwoman and an egg that could turn to anything. Nonetheless as a child; still naïve enough to believe that he could have had a family but that it was not fated to be, to see the man he knows fathered him walking, easily, down the street with not a care in the world and with another son hanging on his every word. Well, it shatters some illusions, shall we say? And then I do not go after him and ask why I was not worthy to be his son and this other is and instead assume that my mother is correct about me and that I truly am as big a monster as she says. So to see him – _you_ – again was fuel for a fight I have waited on with great anticipation.”

He stops, reels his wayward tongue back in, and stares sheepishly at the fake wooden table. “I feel I should apologise again for telling you my lives, rather cliché, woes instead of a simple explanation.”

“You need not worry, friend, for I am always ready to help and it is possible that your problem is quite close to home.”

“I don’t need help. What I need is to stop acting like a whiny child and do something.” His voice is, perhaps, a little to brusque now and so he stands before he can unload any more of his childhood drama on this stranger.

“Well then perhaps we can help each other instead; I came out with the job of distributing flyers about my close friends’ social change group. So if you were to join you would be doing something new and I would have succeeded in recruitment for a change.” Courfeyrac smiles wide and hold out a flyer.

Grantaire takes it rather dubiously noting as he does that the group’s artist is not particularly good, “I’ll come but you might regret it; I’m not really one for hope. Or people.”

Courfeyrac will later discover that these are both understatements of the highest degree but for now he just smiles some more and encourages Grantaire to bring a friend.

He refuses to think of his father as he leaves the small café.

+/+/+

When it comes, the meeting of Le Amis de l’ABC is welcomed by Bahoral, who Grantaire had dragged along so that he would have someone to talk to if the club was very passionate, and disparaged by Grantaire whose lack of interest would be more believable if he had not spent a week designing new leaflets for them and criticising the one he had been given.

When they arrived they were surprised to see a couple of familiar faces; there was Jehan Prouvaire whom Grantaire knew from the few art studies he had attended and Eponine Thenardier who had been involved in more than a few brawls with them, although only one where they fought against each other.

Grantaire’s first instinct is to go to Prouvaire, who was a fair artist though it was not his passion, and ask him why he allowed the leaflets to stay as they were. He held back from the impulse as he did not think he knew the poet well enough to warrant it. When he turned back he found that Bahoral had left him for Eponine.

So instead he stayed close to the doorway and surveyed the other members.

Aside from Prouvaire, Eponine and Courfeyrac there were five other people chatting and catching up.

The one closest to him is talking to Courfeyrac and glancing at the door every few minutes although his gaze skates straight through Grantaire. He is of average height with a soft, careful face set in a worried expression and smooth brown hair.

Close to them are two more men, one tall bald, black and laughing, while the other; short and mousey seems to be lecturing his friend on some unknown subject.

Across from them Bahoral and Eponine have been joined by a young boy, probably the youngest of the men though Grantaire cannot be sure, who is thin, gangly and has bright red hair that sticks out like a sore thumb. He looks painfully out of place beside the other two.

The only one left is a man who is surveying Grantaire in much the same way Grantaire is surveying him. He is short and dark with auburn hair and the beginnings of a beard. And he is coming towards the doorway.

“I…ah, Courfeyrac invited me.” He says it in a rush because the new man is quite stocky and he is feeling too tired to fight and too much of an interloper to say anything else.

At the sound of his name Courfeyrac whips around and, spotting Grantaire, moves purposely forward. “You came!”

“Ah,” Grantaire stutters in the force of personality suddenly surrounding him in the form of these three young men. “I…” He panics and steps backward so as to escape back through the door but instead finds himself flat against another young man. His cheeks burn with embarrassment and he turns to apologise but finds himself transfixed.

The new man is not so much a man as a god descending to earth; he is beautiful in every way Grantaire can think of though designed as classical. His skin is unmarred and alabaster white and seemingly made of marble that Grantaire longs to touch so as to see if it is as cold as it looks. His hair is a golden halo, caressing and framing his face in equal measure. His eyes are the brightest, deepest blue Grantaire can imagine.

He tries to mesmerise every inch of this man so that he can later put it down on canvas.

“You must be Grantaire; Courfeyrac told me he had found another prospective member.” His voice is ice and silk and a sharp whip-crack of clarity but it suits him and Grantaire finds he cannot speak so he contents himself with a nod.

“I am Enjolras.” For half a second Grantaire considers speaking but finds his mouth still glued shut. Enjolras waits but seeing no forthcoming reply, pushes past Grantaire to the front of the room.

“He can be a bit cold at first but he’ll warm up to you.” Courfeyrac murmurs before finding his own seat near the front.

Grantaire finds himself at the back row next to the short, stocky man who is introduces himself as Feuilly when there is a lull in chatter and Prouvaire, who has recognised him and come over to say hello.

Despite the naive and idealistic nature of Enjolras’ speech Grantaire finds himself transfixed, more by the man than the words, true but transfixed and inspired nonetheless. His fingers itched for a brush and canvas but contented themselves to doodling on the wall behind.

Grantaire stubbornly represses the urge to fight some of the more childish notions Enjolras puts forward and instead formulates arguments in his mind for a time when he is feeling braver.

At the end of the meeting Courfeyrac comes to find him and see if he’ll be returning. While he stops to talk to others Grantaire confers with Bahoral who has already decided to return next week. As Courfeyrac comes to stop in front of them Grantaire fingers the redesigned leaflets in his pockets and wonders if he should offer them up.

He leaves them alone and satisfies Courfeyrac with a nod and a promise to return.

+/+/+

After almost two months of attending the meetings but never speaking, of his fingers being worn to the bone and his brushes snapping with the force of the brushstrokes as he fails to paint a worthy picture of Enjolras, Grantaire wakes to find Bahoral, Eponine and Prouvaire in his kitchen examining his projects.

With a heady rush of embarrassment and anger he rushes at them waving a brush he had picked up somewhere along the way. When he reaches them, and stops, because he is too confused to push he sees that only Bahoral, who should know better than to touch unfinished pieces by now, has the grace to look ashamed of his actions.

Eponine has a small smirk on and is slurping coffee in a huge mug that he does not recall ever having seen before and Jehan is grinning madly like a loon and covered in paint stains. Grantaire mentally groans at the thought of having to redo smudged paintings.

Jehan bounces over to him, boundless in his enthusiasm, and hugs him only to pull back almost immediately and started on an almost incomprehensible barrage. “I knew you painted but I never knew you were this good! Why did you stop coming to the art group? And Bahoral showed us your designs for the ABC’s leaflets, why didn’t you show them? There much better than the ones we’ve got.”

“I don’t really believe in the things you speak of and I wasn’t sure if my apathy had formed in the designs as well.” Grantaire felt compelled to answer the question truthfully.

“Well they’re magnificent!” Grantaire smiled a little at the other’s praise and sat down, “You should show them Enjolras later.”

Grantaire’s heart stutters at the thought of it and gulps at the burning coffee Eponine pushes in front of him.

On their way out Bahoral stops and briefly touches his shoulder, “I am worried about you R, you aren’t usually so quiet.”

He almost laughs because what can he say? That there is a god on earth and I would be his disciple if he asked? It would sound only more ridiculous spoken than in his mind.

He smiles wryly and reminds his friend that he is not used to company. But Bahoral has one more concern before he leaves.

He holds up a sketchbook filled with half-drawn pictures of his god; uncompleted because there was always something wrong: the shape of his eyes or the curve of his lips or the wave of his hair.

“This isn’t healthy Grantaire. You have no need of another addiction.”


	2. Chapter 2

Courfeyrac sat at his desk flipping through photos of his father; the resemblance was uncanny, they were practically identical. And if he looked hard enough he could see Grantaire in there too.

The slope of his nose and the slight frown, permanently etched into his eyes, were the same and their hair was similar enough also. But Grantaire’s personality did not match his father’s in any way he could see. Where his father had been boisterous and thrill-seeking much like Courfeyrac himself, Grantaire had been shy, apologetic and nervous.

Perhaps Grantaire had inherited more of his mother’s personality.

Or perhaps they were not related at all. He could only hope that that was the case.

+/+/+

At the next meeting Courfeyrac brought along a photograph of his father for Grantaire to see. He was in luck, as at the end of the meeting Grantaire lingered in his corner with Jehan smiling next to him.

Courfeyrac tried not to look worried or stressed as he hurried over to them.

“And here’s Courfeyrac, now you have no excuse not to show them off!” Jehan grinned at Grantaire and grabbed at something Grantaire was holding.

“Hullo, Courfeyrac.” Grantaire greeted him quietly.

“Hello.” To put off having to ask his question he spoke back, “I didn’t know you two were friends?” Grantaire did not speak often enough for him to have made any close connections in the group.

“Oh yes!” Jehan said excitedly, “R used to come to my arts group.” He put a slight emphasis on the _used_ and mock-glared in Grantaire’s direction.

Grantaire smiled sheepishly, “Life got on top of me, I’m afraid.”

“Actually that’s sort of what we wanted to talk to you and E about.” Jehan said, still grinning madly, “R’s designed some new leaflets for us seeing as the old ones aren’t very good.”

Grantaire snorted, “Understating a bit there, Prouvaire.”

“I suppose we could use something better,” Courfeyrac said doubtfully, his mind straying to the last redesigns they had been given, courtesy of Jehan’s own work.

They had been colourful and eye-catching, certainly, but they had little if anything to do with the Amis objectives and had been difficult to read in any case.

“They’re just small designs for the front.” Grantaire said, sensing his thoughts.

“I’ll go and fetch Enjolras.” Jehan said happily.

As he wandered off Courfeyrac remembered the photo in his pocket and drew it out. “Grantaire…” he stopped, unsure of how to word himself. “I found a picture of my father,” he held it out and Grantaire hesitantly took it, “We look quite…similar at this age.” Grantaire turned the photo over and stared. “It would make sense for you to mistake the two of us.”

Grantaire didn’t move or say a word and after a few moments, Courfeyrac stepped forward and touched his arm in comfort. Grantaire flinched back like he was on fire and dropped the photo.

Grantaire ran blindly through the Musain, pushing past Jehan and Enjolras as though they were ghosts, and out the door.

Courfeyrac felt he’d cocked that up a bit.

+/+/+

Grantaire ran back to his apartment and fell onto the sofa in distress. The image in the photo burned in front of him, branding the back of his eyelids when he tried closing them.

He had drawn the same face too many times before to forget it. He had drawn the man as a corpse; rotting and empty, beaten and bloodied; as he had wished so many times to do to the real thing, as an old man; surrounded by family, although the family he had drawn had been himself and his mother.

It hurt more, somehow, to know that he had been abandoned for a good family; that out of his anguish Courfeyrac had been gifted with a better life. He thinks that it would be easier to know that his father had left to a family as unhappy as his own.

He grasped a brush in his left hand and flicked open a bottle with his right. It would be a long night.

Courfeyrac was having an easier time sorting through his thoughts.

So he has a brother. Half-brother. So what? He has always wanted a sibling. Finding the Amis, especially Enjolras and Combeferre, had dulled that need somewhat but that was not to say he didn’t sometimes still wish for a bigger family.

Even as a friend he worried for Grantaire. Amongst the Amis he was shielded and shy and though he had attended each meeting so far he hadn’t spoken in a single one of them.

But Courfeyrac had seen him with Bahoral when they exited, and it showed how alive the other could be. His voice, though low was quick and intense, and his hands’ movement emphasised every point. Lately Bahoral had started pointing out flaws in their plans and ambitions that Courfeyrac suspected had first been Grantaire’s opinions.

Combeferre said that a devil’s advocate was exactly what their group needed. Enjolras just wanted to know why he would continue to come if he did not believe.

Courfeyrac had yet to point out how Bahoral’s speech seemed stilted and was never impassioned or quite his own when he brought up these things. Or how, when he had finished he would turn towards Grantaire and frown.

He wasn’t sure whether he was looking too hard for things that weren’t there or even if the other two would hear him out. He wasn’t quite ready to talk about the brother thing with anyone else.

+/+/+

Grantaire held the receiver in his hand and listened to the low thrum of the dial tone. He replayed his last conversation with his mother in his head and debated whether or not to call her with this new information.

He dropped the phone down and kicked it out of reach.

< _Coward_ >

The half-finished painting lay to his left, red paint still drying. He had painted his father again, this time with Courfeyrac next to him. He had swapped their clothes and deadened their eyes. Their skins were pasty and their eyes were empty holes. They were still different people though, that much was obvious.

In Grantaire’s limited experience most dead bodies looked the same; greasy, pasty white skin, shocked expressions, and no personality left. It made painting them easy.

He had had a short lived career as an artist for the police as a person’s memory was almost exclusively better than the identikit in their systems. Short lived because despite what he had thought, seeing other people’s trauma, in no way helped dissipate his own.

And because the police weren’t particularly happy with all his drinking. He had some friends left over from the experience though. He considered asking one of them for information about the Courfeyrac family but dismissed it as a bad way to repay someone who actually wanted to be his friend.

The painting was hardly one of his best but he couldn’t throw it away. He didn’t like throwing them away. It would probably be stashed in the attic with all the others that gave him night terrors.

The terrors were fairly frequent even without him painting new ones.

His current job was as a tattoo artist in the shadier part of town where he has a couple more friends. Lately Feuilly had started coming down as well lured by the few hints Grantaire has dropped about a girlfriend.

What Grantaire has, obviously, neglected to mention was that the girl in question was Estelle; an eighty-four year old ex-painted lady who had enough space left for a few small tattoos. So far he had found no reason to dissuade Feuilly of the notion that he had a girlfriend but he knew that it was sure to come out soon.

Estelle was coming back in on Friday to have a tiger fight depicted in miniature behind her right ear. He was looking forward to it. She was easily the best customer he’d ever had in this or any other job and he did look forward to introducing her to Feuilly.

He started to sketch a design for the tigers on a scrap of paper and continued to debate the possibility of calling someone.


	3. Chapter 3

Feuilly knelt down on the steps outside Grantaire’s house, took out his equipment and set to work. He was about halfway done when the door opened and Grantaire’s face frowned down at him.

“Hey man! Where’ve you been? I’ve been knocking all morning.”

“Are you picking my lock?”

Feuilly straightened up gave his friend a quick once over. Grantaire’s face, arms and hands were covered in paint streaks and his eyes were a little wild. But what caught Feuilly’s attention was the large bruise on the side of his face and the dried blood flecks on his lips.

“What happened to _you_?”

“What? You first.”

“Me _first_? You look like you’ve been attacked! Yes, I was picking your lock. Because I was worried Grantaire, I rang first if that helps.”

“Not really.” Grantaire smiled dryly, accentuating the blue and green in the bruise. “You want some coffee?”

Feuilly followed him inside warily. The house was a mess, more paint coating the walls and a thin sheen of blood on the sofa cushions. Paint tubes and empty bottles littered the floor, there were no shelves but Grantaire appeared to have improvised with boxes, ruined canvases and glued together bottles.

The books were mostly about different artists and mythologies with a few scattered lectures and classic crime novels. There was an old wood burner in the corner and an old-fashioned telephone lying on its side. The most interesting thing in the first room was the paintings; stacked all over the house, in every space available.

He moved forwards to the nearest and lifted the cloth covering it. It was a detailed examination of a dead bear’s head. There was blood seeping in and soaking its fur, a glassy eyeball a little out of place and a single maggot crawling out of an ear.

It was ridiculously realistic and more than a little creepy.

“Ah! Don’t touch that.” Grantaire was back, carrying two beers, “It’s a commission.”

“Who’d commission that?”

“I don’t know, but he’s paying well so I won’t argue.” He took a long gulp of his drink and pushed some stuff off the sofa. “Sit down. It’s more interesting than the usual stuffy portraits anyhow.”

Feuilly cautiously lowered himself down and picked up a sketchbook lying on an arm. He flicked through the pages, stopping on one particularly vibrant one of Enjolras.

“I thought you were a tattoo artist?”

“Artist doesn’t just mean one thing. But just painting doesn’t pay very well.”

After a brief pause Feuilly continued, “You have a lot of Enjolras?”

“He’s a good subject.” Grantaire drained his beer and grabbed the sketchbook from him; he flipped to the back and found a clear page. “Do you mind?” He reached around and found a pencil in the sofa cushions.

Feuilly raised an eyebrow, “Does it matter?”

Grantaire’s lips twitched upward, “I’ll draw you either way, but it’ll be better if you sit for it.”

“Ok, haven’t got much else to do.”

Grantaire bent over the book and got to work, occasionally looking up to check something. Feuilly watched him. His one attempt at conversation fell down quite quickly:

“I paint too, you know.”

“Oh?”

“I make and sell fans.”

“Do you have any on you?”

“No.”

So he settled on watching Grantaire’s hands move across the page. Grantaire’s technique seemed nothing like his own; although he supposed that might be because he did not do portraits.

Sometimes Grantaire would hiss in frustration and smudge part of the picture. Feuilly felt oddly proud of the complexity of his face.

After a good three hours, in which Feuilly busied himself with Grantaire’s books and coffee machine, which culminated in the decision that portraits must be much harder than he had previously thought Feuilly decided to try conversation again.

“So, how did you end up looking like that?”

Grantaire raised his eyebrows, “Rude, aren’t you? I was born this way.”

Feuilly huffed, “I _meant_ , how did you get so beat up?”

Grantaire’s lips twitched upward, “It’s not that bad.”

“So, I should see the other guy?” Feuilly said hopefully.

Grantaire grinned and scribbled his signature at the bottom of the page. “Yep.” He tore the page out and carefully folded it. “Don’t open that until you get home. And I box, if you’re that interested in my well-being; I’ve had much worse than this.”

+/+/+

Charlotte Grantaire stalked her sitting room, scowling and swearing. More than one china ornament lay in pieces on the floor.

Why on earth had her son felt the need to call her? Did he think she wanted to hear that the man she loved was living a full and happy life without her? That he’d had a family with some other slut, except that her child had been worth staying for?

It was clear that the boy – her son – lived only to torment her. First he drives away her lover, then makes a life a living hell while he grows up, burdening what she’s sure would have otherwise been a magnificent life. But, clearly not content with all that, he was getting as much out of her as he could now he had left as well.

And after all, what possible reason would he have for telling her he’d met his half-brother than to cause her pain? Blasted child.

+/+/+

Enjolras didn’t understand what had happened to the Amis since Bahoral and Grantaire joined them. The two meshed with them rather well, despite Bahoral’s augmentative and contradictory nature. In spite of his original feeling towards the other man Enjolras could see the good in having someone to fight all his plans; it had succeeded in making them stronger. The strange thing was Bahoral never had an argument ready on the day the speech was spoken; he would always argue them the next day.

Grantaire on the other hand, had brought nothing to the group; Enjolras had no grudge or ill will towards the man he was just unsure as to Grantaire’s reasons for coming along. He never contributed ideas, nor did he look as though he was ever paying attention.

In fact, if it were not for Courfeyrac’s behaviour Enjolras would probably never have noticed him at all.

In the past few days Courfeyrac had brought up Grantaire rather more times than was necessary. Of course, in Enjolras’ opinion, no mentions were necessary. This was not to say that he disliked the other, merely that he had not made any impression on him as of yet.

The designs Jehan had shown him made an impact, though not a large one. Enjolras dealt in facts and figures and solidity, he didn’t really understand art or how it could influence any decision. He would leave the frivolous business up to the others.

He supposed that Grantaire’s designs had been aesthetically pleasing and certainly more eye-catching than the previous ones and he did understand that this may help draw people in. He didn’t know why Jehan had been disappointed at him when he said so though, especially as it had been a compliment.


	4. Chapter 4

**[IV]**

Grantaire doesn’t return to the group for two months, and because of this Bahoral’s attendance also lessens. Enjolras refuses to admit he misses the either of them but especially Grantaire. He has no reason to miss Grantaire.

Despite Jehan’s constant pestering as to what happened, Courfeyrac tells no one what he found out about himself and Grantaire.

Jehan, Eponine and Feuilly call round often but are rarely welcomed in. Courfeyrac decides it is safer to stay away, he reasons that Grantaire’s overreaction came from him it would be best not to confront him again for fear of casing another.

Bahoral misses the group but not so much as he misses his best friend. He remembers how hard it had been last time; when Grantaire ended up barely one step away from death. This time there is no clear cause for his decline and illness. He had not drunk himself to death; merely to depression. Bahoral had moved in with him in an attempt to help, but as of yet he hadn’t been able to do much apart from drinking some of the alcohol before Grantaire could.

He had hoped after the last time, Grantaire would stop drinking but after an ill-fated attempt at going cold turkey he had lost most of that hope.

The fear he had felt when he first entered Grantaire’s house to find him slumped, unconscious on the floor still froze his heart on occasions.

The threat of it happening again made sure he would protect his friend at all costs.

The first time Eponine and Jehan called round he had wanted more than anything to let them in but knew full well it would not help.

+/+/+

Grantaire painted almost obsessively. It had always been the only thing that could take his find off the call for another drink.  He starts by finishing the few commissions he has, and then moves on to personal projects. When he reaches blocks as to where they are going he starts new ones; paintings of Enjolras fill many canvases.

He wonders, sometimes, if the man had liked his sketches and, when the mood takes him, he paints new slogans and posters for the group.

When he slows down and his thoughts threaten to overcrowd his body, he brush moves almost of its own accord to fill the canvas with horrorscapes and dystopias. He knows that this is what his mind strays to when he is not holding it back and it frightens him.

When Bahoral moves in he tries to slow down and accommodate him. He smashes his bottles to stop drinking, as he knows his friend fears a relapse. He doesn’t need the drink so much these days anyway.

The shards of bottle cut into his skin and blood drips down the canvases: that he likes the images it provides him with highlights the part of his brain that warns when he’s getting too immersed in his work.

He makes sure Bahoral knows it wasn’t deliberate before painting the drips into battles. He always uses blood in battle painting; he prefers to think of it as method rather than madness. He knows Bahoral trusts his word and that is generally enough to stop him from lying. Being trusted makes him feel so warm.

He goes to work often and not at all, few customers come by and the ones who do don’t stay long. His black moods often permeate the air around him and no stranger has enough trust to sit underneath him when he’s holding a needle.

Estelle comes by and he draws in another new tattoo, this time a hummingbird above her left eye. She expresses disappointment at not seeing Feuilly again and Grantaire feels a slow smile spread across his as he remembers their meeting.

He doesn’t tell Estelle his problems because he knows what she will say. She will tell him that when people get what they wish for this is usually their reaction. She will tell him to stop moping and grab life by the reins. She will tell him that he is a coward and then tell him a story about what she was doing at his age. She will hug him and make him laugh and force him to confront it head on.

He knows all these things, so he does not say a word.

+/+/+

Estelle worries for her R. He is slipping again and this time she doesn’t know the cause. She hopes it isn’t drink again; she will never forget the day when his friend called her up and told her he was dying.

Bahoral had barely exaggerated on the phone. That was when she realised how much she cared about him. It scared her; she had run away from her parents, then later she had run away from the circus, and then she had run from every job she stayed in longer than a few months.

And now she couldn’t run away from one lonely child. It terrified her.

She had stayed here for two years now and she refused to outlive him. She would not bury another child, not now. Not ever.

She takes one of the leaflets for his friend’s club and memorises it.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter is filler and backstory. Sorry.


End file.
